The Panther of Vergen
by Dovaah
Summary: Kathryne of Vergen wanted nothing to do with mysterious monsters, with being imprisoned, with evil omens. She just wanted a beer or ten to wash her troubles away with. But the life of a witcher, even a female one, is never that easy.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

This is a story based very loosely off of the RPG The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings. It is centered mainly around an OC, but later on actual characters will become very prominent. I plan on including storylines and locations from the game throughout, so there may be spoilers. If you have not yet played or even heard of The Witcher, fear not; all backstory knowledge required to understand the fiction will be stated in the prologue.

Wow, that felt stiff! Too many big words. Anyway, enough dillydallying. Enjoy, and don't forget to comment! :)

_**The Panther of Vergen**_

_Prologue_

My name is Kathryne of Vergen. I have the eyes of a cat, the hearing of an owl, the scent capabilities of a hound, and I'm the best swordswoman in Aedirn. Which is to say, I'm a witcher. The only female witcher I know of.

If you don't know what a witcher is, chances are you either have only just been birthed from your mother's womb, or you come from some other realm- which is actually a surprisingly common occurrence. Whichever the case, I'll enlighten you.

A witcher is a monsterslayer for hire. We kill vile beasts and monsters for a living and help people in exchange for coin. Some may call us mercenaries, but mercenaries kill people. Witchers don't. Well, the occasional few do...just not as a rule.

However, you see, we are often shunned by the very people we protect, especially by the humans. We are called monsters, mutants, and freaks. These insults are often emphasized with physical violence, as well. But I suppose that when the people call us mutants, they do not lie.

Witchers have to be exceptionally powerful and enduring to live to fight monsters every day. At childhood, we are given mutagenic plants and toxic herbs to ingest. If we survive the changes, the mutagens enhance our existing abilities a thousandfold, and add new ones to boot.

But great power comes at a great price.

We gain the eyes of a cat, which allows us to see in darkness as well as if it were day. We are also far more resilient, able to withstand many more blows with much less trouble than any ordinary person, humans and nonhumans alike. This in turn allows us to return even more punishment to our opponents. The damage we cause, too, is tremendous compared to anyone or anything else.

But we witchers are hunted and hated- out of spite, of fear, of jealousy. There are many in this world that would love to claim our power for themselves, no matter the cost. Others simply see us as a blight to all of Temeria, vile vermin that must be exterminated. Yet the people that despise us so need us to dispatch the monsters and beasts that prey so mercilessly upon their ungrateful flesh.

It is nothing short of bitter irony that we save so many lives, human and nonhuman, only to be hated and hunted. But that's the way life is, I suppose.

Naturally, there's the occasional assassin or murderer witcher that tarnishes our image even more. We do our job a bit too well, and although we are few, the numbers of the monsters we hunt dwindle as well. We are an endangered species, a dying race.

Another reason witchers have become so rare is because of how a man or woman becomes one. The secrets of the transformation into a witcher are treasured and closely guarded...but even the strongest of walls can crumble, and the sharpest of weapons can dull.

Once, the mutagen formulas for the witcher transformation were snatched right out of the grasp of the valiant warriors at Kaer Morhen, a former witcher sanctuary and training keep. We eventually regained what was ours, but this story does not have a happy ending. Almost all the lives of the witchers present during the assault were lost in battle and no more witchers have been trained since. In addition to this, the toxic plants we witchers are subjected to during the mutations leave us sterile...witchers are made, not born.

Due to the rarity of monsters and fellow witchers coupled with the rejection of society, some of the remaining witchers turn to murder for coin and assassination for their daily bread. I am not one of these corrupted men, but you know the saying...one bad apple spoils the bunch.

I suppose I do well enough, though. I make coin substantial enough to live off of so I am neither starving nor must I resort to darker methods of achieving funds. I may not be as well-known as the famed Geralt of Rivia, but at least I'm not wanted in every last city...well, yet. And my mutations did not leave me albino, either.

Speaking of which, I never told you what I looked like, did I? My apologies. At least I introduced myself. I really look no different from an average elf- slightly pointed ears, fair skin, delicate facial features. I am lucky enough to possess ample breasts upon a lean and tall body covered in intricate tattoos, which makes persuading the men to my favor quite easy. I have ebony hair so long, it reaches past my back end...however, I find this feature quite annoying, particularly when fighting. I've had unspeakable things get lodged in my locks, and let me tell you, it is never fun getting them out. So I simply tie it into a braid.

But the distinguishing feature I, like all witchers, possess are my eyes. Some witchers have yellow irises, some orange, some blue. But mine are as green as the leaves upon the trees. I also prefer leather armor over a flowing emerald green blouse. I prefer quick strikes and agile movements to slow weapons and clunky armor. And honestly, let's face it...steel plate doesn't flatter anyone's bodice.

Oh, and I have my swords. Every witcher has two swords- a steel sword for the more violent humans and a silver one for monsters. A witcher should only use their silver sword for monsters, including people suspected of being beasts such as vampires or werewolves. But this judgement is at the witcher's discretion.

But I must tell you, I've killed people that I knew were not of the supernatural. That doesn't mean they weren't monsters.

And one final thing- each witcher has a steel amulet representing whichever school they were trained at. I was trained at the School of the Cat, thus the head of a panther rests upon my chest. But after the siege on Kaer Morhen, which I learned had been set up by my own school, I wear it beneath my blouse. It shames me to allow it in public view. But I suppose I've rambled long enough about witchers.

I think it's time to tell you my story.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note:

Sorry, the wait was a fair amount longer than I anticipated it to be...I get distracted easily. I'm only human, after all. This short chapter is a poor way to repay any who've been waiting for an update, but a lot happens in it. Anyway, enjoy!

_Chapter One: Framed_

When I wandered into Vergen, I did not anticipate being imprisoned. I just wanted a bite two eat and a few flagons of mead with which to drown my troubles in. Alas, the life of a witcher is never that easy nor lucky.

When I walked into The Cauldron, the jeers, laughs, and clinking of breaking glasses typical of any tavern's smoky atmosphere subsided. I strode purposefully to the bar counter and seated myself, ignoring the hateful stares and disdainful murmurs that the crowd threw my way.

"Evil eye," a lean human with blonde hair growled. He turned to his heavyset, muscular comrade and laughed, "I bet you could take her down in one swing, Jaroth!"

The man called Jaroth grinned wickedly and nodded. "I bet I could too, Faldan, but there's only one way to find out."

He stood from his chair and lumbered arrogantly to my own.

"So whadaya say, lass? D'you think a mere _human _like me could take down a witcher?'

I just ignored him, waiting for the innkeeper to come over to me. Jaroth, meanwhile, began to get flusterd with my apathy. Snickers rippled through the crowd at the brute's reddening face.

Eventually, Jaroth snapped.

"Answer me, freak!" he roared, spraying me with spittle. When I said nothing once again, he swung at me. I, however, simply ducked, grabbed his extended arm, and pulled him down to the unforgiving wooden floor. He landed with a heavy thud that shook the bar and laid there for a moment, stunned. Then he opened his piggy eyes and groaned.

I loomed over him with a none-too-friendly smile on my lips.

"It's Kathryne, actually," I said sweetly.

And with that I walked back to my seat and accepted a pint of mead from the shocked innkeeper. A hush fell over the crowd and I could feel their eyes staring at me, burning into me.

Faldan cautiously walked over to Jaroth and helped him to his unsteady feet.

"I want a rematch," the barbarian grumbled.

Faldan walked Jaroth to his table. He then stomped angrily to me and started to growl, "We want a-"

I cut him off, though.

"I heard you the first time," I snapped, not bothering to turn and look him in his beady eye.

Faldan looked at me, stunned, causing the rest of the inn to laugh. But he quickly regained his composure.

"Well, if you heard us, then you'll have no reason to not accept," he said haughtily. And with these words, he too swung at me. Again, I ducked, but before I could pull him to the ground, too, the wooden door to the inn exploded. Splinters of wood littered the ground and screams rang out as some kind of..._thing _filled the doorway.

It was obviously a monster of some kind, but it was no monster I had ever seen before- which is saying something.

It had the horns of a ram, the body of a man, the skin of a snake, the wings of a dragon, and the head of a hound. Which is to say, it looked like some kind of stitched-together mages' experiment gone horribly wrong. And it obviously wasn't too fond of large crowds, either, as it promptly attacked and gutted a nearby open-mouthed bystander.

Everything fell quiet for a split second as the beast raised its bloody muzzle from the poor man's innards. Then, the quiet erupted. People, humans and nonhumans alike, flocked to the door, pushing and shoving each other as they tried desperately to escape. Some of the more brave (or more drunk) men rushed in to do battle with the beast, only to earn a swift and painful death.

Any damage that anyone managed to land on the monstrosity was fleeting, for it simply healed instantly from its fist- and steel-inflicted wounds. I, however, drew my poisoned silver sword.

The beast had attacked Faldan most recently, tearing his arm off in the process. Before it delivered the killing bite, however, I slashed it across its backside. Naturally, this action caused the monster to whirl around to face me with a shriek. It opened its great maw in a roar, spittle flying off its bloodstained fangs.

The monster took a direct attack style, meaning it started to run towards me. As it barreled at me, I waited, sword raised in anticipation. At the last second, however, I rolled to the right and plunged my weapon into its scaly side. But shockingly, despite my blade running through a lung and most likely its heart, the beast did not fall. Instead it shrieked and tore my sword out of its body. Green blood covered the blade and spurted from the wound, covering just about everything else. The monster clamped the gaping hole in its side with a clawed hand and ran toward a wall. Before it ran into the stone, however, a portal spawned before the creature. As it vanished, the strange monster disappeared with it.

The chaos ended as suddenly as it had begun. The only sounds I could hear were my racing pulse, labored breathing, and Faldan's whimpering in the corner. I lowered my bloodstained sword, taking a few moment to examine the bodies around me.

Corpses lay everywhere, their contents strewn about the roughly hewn wooden floor. Tables, flagons, dice boards, and other various items typical of a tavern littered the ground. The air was heavy with smoke, dust, and the coppery scent of blood.

I looked around at the mess, knowing some of the people who laid motionless upon the floor wanted only to ease their troubles with drink, much like I had. Suddenly, though, a noise disrupted my musing.

It sounded like the stomping of many men. Judging by the metallic sounds my excellent hearing detected, they were armed as well. One guard entered the door only to stop abruptly with a gasp and raise his sword toward me. All the men behind him had a very similar response.

Then Faldan, that ungrateful little whoreson, raised a finger from his remaining hand and pointed it accusingly at me.

"She did this, guards! Murderer, mutant! Lock her away, put her down like the mad bitch she is!" he roared.

I saw him smirk as guards filed in around me, weapons bristling.

Surrounded, I threw my sword upon the bloodstained ground and raised my hands, accepting my fate.


End file.
